Predestined Union
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: A handsome, young clergyman catches Lady Mary's eye. His name is Matthew Crawley, and neither he nor Mary would have imagined that their futures are entwined. Begins summer 1912.
1. One

She had taken the cool breeze, clear skies, and pleasant scenery to be mere fortune - nothing more. Her body felt very light with every step she took toward the village, and the softness of the grass on which she trod - rich, green summertime grass - enriched her day with a sense of calm goodness.

At the age of one and twenty, Lady Mary Crawley was not bound with the bonds of marriage. Her life as the eldest daughter of a son-thirsty Earl hadn't ever upset her as it did now; but, once again, all seemed to be right with the world as she neared Downton Village. She turned the corner to find, as she always did, the village church.

Its walls were of a particularly interesting history; and, because of Downton's age, it had endured both eras of change and periods of stability. But something about the church occurred different to Mary. _Perhaps they've planted a new garden,_ imagined she, eyeing the orchids and the lilies and the roses in the courtyard.

Her curiosity was soon satisfied; there were several baggage items that lay just outside the doors to the church, and a young man in clergy robes occupied the entrance amongst several other villagers. One of these was a woman, whom Mary figured to be the Father's mother.

_He must have been ordained recently,_ thought she, _because I do not recognise him._ Indeed, the new Father to the village church had recently been established at his new vocational home. Mary averted her gaze when the man suddenly turned his head, locking eyes with her.

He was no unattractive sight, either: the sea-blue eyes that so beautifully complimented his facial structure and golden hair captivated the young woman's attention. Still she found not the slightest bit of courage to meet the man.

But alas, it was too late for her to escape; the fascinating man set down his bags, halted his conversation with two of his companions, and sought after Mary.

She felt ashamed for leaving the scene after he'd noticed her, but in moments her legs had stopped further motion. She composed herself, brushing the skirt of her cream, satin dress. She took the time to brush any strands of hair away from her face, and before she had finished this, _he_ stood before her.

"Good afternoon," greeted the stranger jovially. Mary couldn't help but to smile at his figure; so bright with life was it, and so full of beauty was his form, that she had to keep her calm. And Mary wasn't a particularly lustful woman, but that upon which her warm brown eyes focused did wonders to her mind.

"Good afternoon," replied she. "I apologise for my nosiness; the church had captured my attention for some reason -"

"And I believe that reason was the garden," supposed the man. "We've had it enhanced by Mr. Molesley - a very nice man who owns a flower shop here in the village."

Seconds passed. Mary continued to politely look the Father in the eyes, which he did in return -

"I realise I've not introduced myself. I'm Matthew Crawley, and as you can tell, my missionary work has brought me to lovely Downton." He offered his arm to her eagerly, and she shook it with equal willingness. In fact, Mary felt on the verge of embracing the young man; he was irresistibly fascinating.

"Well," Mary began, "it is an honour to welcome yet another of God's servants to our estate. I am Mary Crawley - funny, that we share a name." She'd scared herself, almost revealing her father's name and title. _This is my chance to be a normal person - a commoner,_ reasoned she. _I hate it when people treat me differently because I am an Earl's daughter._

Father Crawley nodded. "That _is _curious that we share the name 'Crawley'. Anyway, thank you for your kind words; this is rather a nice place, and I plan to spend a pleasant four months here."

"Oh? So you're not the presiding minister of this church for long?" Mary couldn't believe her ears. _Of course the only decent man (and most likely, friend) I meet in my life won't even be here for Christmas! What luck._

The clergyman smiled sadly. "Unfortunately, yes. My foremost wish as a Father of the Anglican Church was to find and settle permanently into a location. But I've consigned to missionary work, spreading the gospel in both England and India. I've had the good fortune of meeting kind people..." He trailed off as his eyes admired this woman whom he had just met. "Does your family live in the village?"

_Good,_ rejoiced Mary, _he knows nothing of the significance of my surname._ "We live several minutes away from here, closer to the abbey." Her heart skipped a beat; how painful it was to lie to the man, an instrument of The Lord! But he swallowed her information with ease.

"Ah," he remarked, "your family must have a long history in this region. If I might ask, what it your father's occupation?"

Mary gulped. "He...he has none, actually. We're getting on fine, but -"

"Do you have a brother who is working?"

"No."

Father Crawley frowned. "That surprises me. But I will not inquire further about personal matters, for I can tell that it troubles you." He imparted a kindhearted, genuine smile.

After all this, Mary's heart ached to tell him the truth. _Why have I led him to believe my family poor? What am I to say, should this good Father ask to see my house and my family?_ "I-I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Father Crawley. I shall keep my eye out for you whenever I pass by here."

"And," added the clergyman, "if you are a member of the Anglican Church - you are, are you not? - I would be delighted to see you amid the pews here at the village church." His mouth still lay open, as if prepared to utter another sentence, but a voice came from the entrance into the church sanctuary. "I'm sorry to be abrupt, Miss Crawley. If you'll excuse me..." He lifted his hat from his head, nodded to Mary, and left for the church.

As she watched him leave, a peculiar feeling popped into her head:

She would persuade Father Matthew Crawley to stay until Christmas. Perhaps until _forever._


	2. Two

Mary had allowed for a week to pass before she returned to the village church; she hoped that Father Crawley had settled nicely into his new parish. It was a clear Tuesday morning; Mary presumed there would be a far greater chance that the clergyman would be available for tea.

This was the woman's secret: she felt slightly downcast about her lies – ones that would take great courage and sincere forgiveness to correct. It wasn't the fact that she'd called herself a lesser member of the social hierarchy; if anything, Mary Crawley had for so long craved to rid herself of the title "Lady", because she understood that her father's fortune would not transfer to her, therefore reducing her self-esteem to zero. But social class was not the issue here.

She hadn't told Father Crawley the truth, and his vocational work made that all the more embarrassing.

Nevertheless Mary trudged across the easiest terrain – smooth walkways, gentle grass, fertile soil – until she won sight of the church's courtyard. The royal-purple lilies rocked back-and-forth with the sweet rhythm of the comforting breeze. She dared to enter the sanctuary for the first time in years and –

There he was. Conversing with the organist all the way past the barren pews, Matthew Crawley donned ordinary clothing from head to toe. Something about this less-formal presence brought chills to Mary's body, and she quietly proceeded down the leftmost hallway. The Father continued to discuss liturgical matters with the church organist.

"…so if we could include these two hymns after the benediction…" Matthew and a middle-aged man looked over a few pages in the hymnal before directing their attention to Mary. "Ah, Miss Crawley," greeted the Father. "Wonderful to see you again. This is Mr. Whiting, our exceptional organist." Mary shook hands with the new acquaintance and smiled.

"I am glad to meet you, Miss Crawley," Whiting replied warmly. He turned to face Matthew. "But you two are not related?"

"No, unfortunately not." The Father studied Mary's face momentarily, as if trying to wring out some resemblance between her features and the knowledge of his own. "No, I don't believe we are related. I met Miss Crawley last week in the village. Her family lives just outside the village."

"Oh, how very nice," remarked the organist cheerily. "And your name is…?"

"Mary Crawley. I am glad to have met you." She respectfully bowed her head to Mr. Whiting, in the attempt not to appear eager to conclude his inclusion in the conversation. Luckily the kind man returned to his practising, leaving Father Crawley's good company to Mary. He sighed whilst they walked down the hallway.

"Serving the Lord is a wonderful thing, but I seek a time at which I am no longer overwhelmed." They had met the front door, whose maple wood was complimented with a beautiful arrangement of stained-glass. Mary adored it; something about the array of colours and shapes dazzled her mind.

The clergyman's gaze hinted at his willingness for a response which regarded his most recent comment. So Mary switched her focus and answered, "I'm sure that to assume such a vocation as yours requires a certain type of person."

Father Crawley nodded thoughtfully. "That is very true in the case of a Father, or of any important member of the Church. An organist, for example, must know himself to be capable of performing every holy day with faith in God. If the job does not suffice, well...it may not be the right vocation for him." His countenance appeared troubled – not by the remarks about an incompetent organist, of course – and he rubbed his shoulder nervously. "This is my first time back home since I left Manchester five years ago for India."

_What a different life he must have had there,_ thought Mary with a sliver of fear. She herself could not imagine enduring such a journey, not to forget such a critical mission. _Perhaps the most important vocation in the world,_ mused she. "Your experience is sure to far exceed mine, but with reverence I look upon that with admiration. You seem the right person for the task."

And this Mary had truly meant, but the reality of young Matthew Crawley's situation troubled him deeply. He did _not_ feel right to the task. Of course, years of rigorous studies as a seminarian had made his future feel_ right, _and he had never paused to wonder whether a life as a missionary Father fit him.

Not until he'd spotted this amiable woman on the village streets one week ago. But he had only just commenced a chapter in his journey as a clergyman, and now – he chastised himself – was not the proper time to wish for an alternate route.

Wrapping his mind back around Mary's declaration, Father Crawley put on his mask of cheeriness and asked the young woman, "What plans do you have for the day? I believe we've finally reached the summer solstice – and the day is yet very young – so I imagine you have much to do."

Mary shook her head sadly. "No, nothing but a few errands. But I do enjoy the village; it's pleasant for walking in the mild summer heat." She paused briefly, then locked eyes with him once again: "And how about you, Father Crawley? Will there be time in the endless day for you to rest, after a long week of adjustments?"

Matthew grinned, marvelling at her question and at her cleverness. _This is someone with whom I wouldn't mind talking for hours on end._ "Perhaps some time in the afternoon," admitted he. "In fact, would you like to meet my mother? We can all have luncheon together; our house is in the village, so it would only take a short walk."

This being much of an unexpected treat, Mary nodded and replied, "Of course; thank you, very much. It would be both a pleasure and an honour. When shall I be there?"

"We usually have our afternoon repast around one o'clock," explained the clergyman. "I hope waiting until then doesn't involve you sacrificing your stomach." Mary chuckled, and so did he: her emotions were growing contagious.

"It sounds perfect, actually," admitted she. "My family doesn't ring for – that is, we don't eat luncheon until half-past one anyway." Though she'd caught herself yet another time, Mary couldn't help but to feel increasingly guilty for the deception with which she had fed the generous Father. Quickly she made herself smile. "Where shall I find your house?"

As he gave concise directions to the cottage in which he now lived with his mother, Lady Mary Crawley had been reduced to one of the flimsy, sunlight-dependent lilies that rested in the garden outside the church. Her eyes fell for his wide grin; her ears devoured his every sweet word; her mouth craved the privilege to speak with him more and more, on and on. And when at last this mysteriously compelling man finished his speech, she felt his pain. Suddenly she understood the symbolic meaning behind his nervous remarks about his vocation.

It was at that time when she realised what she needed to do.

Matthew Crawley was a lost man in the semblance of a loyal minister of God's Word. But Mary could help him; she could free him from his feelings of obligation to a vocation that perhaps did not suit him.

And so, almost instantly, Mary Crawley's life had become all the more purposeful.


	3. Three

The modest cottage was on the predominantly rural side of the village; farming land practically surrounded it, deeming the little house an island in the midst of an agricultural ocean. Mary had expected something fancier, but in no shape or form was she upset by it. Instead she admired the peacefulness of this home opposite hers, as she ambled down the stone path and toward the front door.

Father Crawley was not the one to welcome her; a cheery, middle-aged woman greeted her with a "Hello! You must be the woman from the village; my son has told me all about you. Do come in."

Mary smiled and walked inside. "It is very kind of you both to have me here."

The other woman offered her arm. "Of course, Mary. I am Isobel. Matthew tells me that we are all Crawleys. What luck!" Isobel's genuine excitement illuminated the room, as did her contagious smile. Mary thought she'd never smile so much at a single person in so little time.

"I hear that the Grantham family go by the surname 'Crawley' as well," informed Mrs. Crawley in a softer tone. "They have three girls, from what I've heard. And the eldest of the three cannot inherit Lord Grantham's fortune or his estate! It's all very hard for me to imagine, since my life has not been one of aristocratic structure or customs - ah, Matthew dear!"

"Hello Mother, Mary," acknowledged the clergyman happily. Matthew's face flushed at the sight of his guest, and Mary found it the proper time to chime in, "Thank you both for accepting me into your house. It's a lovely home."

"I'm sure yours is far nicer," remarked Matthew. Mary panicked for the slightest second until the man continued: "Since you have a larger family than us, of course."

_Why have I fabricated this lower life of mine?_ wondered a regretful Mary. "It _is_ larger, yes, but honestly I enjoy the feeling of a smaller home. Something about the comforting aura about it -"

"Oh, dear!" Isobel suddenly exclaimed. "You'll have to excuse me, Mary; I've forgotten to take our meal off the stove!" The older woman smiled at her son and his new acquaintance before hurrying down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen. Matthew sighed when his mother was gone.

"She's more of a nurse than a cook," he admitted. Mary's face lightened up at this. _What an accomplishment, to have trained and worked as a nurse!_ "Has she been able to continue as a nurse?" she asked.

"As a matter of fact, she has," replied the clergyman. "Dr. Clarkson at the village hospital has generously accepted her as a volunteer into his practice." The young man leaned closer to Mary's ear and whispered, "I think she bothered him so much that he had to give in."

They both chuckled at this. Mary loved the casual nature of this man: he wasn't in the least bit disloyal to his vocation as Father, and yet he effectively played the role of an ordinary young man living an ordinary life. Of course Mary knew his life was not regular.

"I think Mother will get rather angry if I never invite you into our dining-room, so please follow me." He led her out of the entryway, chuckling still whilst his guest marvelled at his agreeable personality from behind. The two entered the dining room after passing by the small living-room and the humid kitchen. Isobel was not still there, but the meal's unavoidable scent filled the room ever more.

In little time at all, the three of them were seated at the small square table, halfway through their luncheon. Isobel had made her favourite vegetable soup; "It actually cools oneself down, despite the warm temperature," she'd mentioned in defence. Her son had prevented himself from bursting into laughter, as he knew how silly it was for his mother to defend her cooking.

"How have you been getting along here?" Mary asked her hosts. "Do you like Downton?"

Isobel jumped at the chance to impart her response. "It is very nice. Dr. Clarkson's hospital staff is simply wonderful; I've spent much time volunteering there."

"Yes, your son has told me about your profession as a nurse. I wish I knew more about occupations in general." Mary noticed a change in the older woman's countenance; it appeared startled by the former assertion, and in seconds Mary had realised what she'd admitted. "That is," she corrected, "I am unfamiliar with the prerequisites for many professions -"

"Have you a job?" the curious clergyman asked. Thus far, his eyes had persisted to gaze upon the very welcome guest. He could instantly tell that she had been taken aback by his question. "Forgive me for being so abrupt, Mary. Please don't feel obligated to answer."

"I am unemployed," stated the young woman, having decided to remain as close to the truth as she could dare. "My youngest sister is more likely than I to have a job by Christmas. She is the rebellious one in my family, after all."

Neither Isobel nor Matthew smiled at this. Mary quickly recognised her mistake; her heart ached with longing to fit in among these kind, middle-class people. _But I cannot - and will never - fit in._ "I'm sorry, I should not have... If you'll excuse me, I suddenly feel very ill."

Matthew stood from his chair whilst an overwhelmed, abashed Mary Crawley struggled to set the napkin and utensils back onto the table. Isobel remarked, "My dear, if we have made you uncomfortable I am terribly sorry."

"No, I assure you, Mrs. Crawley, that no harm has been done. If I may..." Mary had finally disengaged entirely from the chair and table. With her hand on her stomach - for her mind told her she would become very sick - the woman turned away from the perplexed mother and son. She rushed out of the dining-room, managing to prevent her insides from stopping her motions to the front door.

Matthew hurried to catch her; but as his eyes examined the front-yard from a window, he found her tiny figure already several metres away.


	4. Four

It was a lucky thing for Mary to do so much as to step outside the abbey and feel the crisp summer air. Edith made fun of her sister, naturally; "It's silly, Mama," she reasoned with their disappointed mother, "that Mary's _afraid_ of that man."

_That man._ Surprising it was for the eldest Crawley daughter to choose such a title for the one who had become the talk of the village. But Mary's feelings did not concur with logic at the present. No, not in the slightest; after all, she'd resolved to veer from every opportunity to amble down to the village…for _months._

She would wake at the crack of dawn to write letters to a clergyman named Matthew Crawley, but never had she sent one. _I cannot apologise to him through correspondence,_ she'd tell herself. And perhaps that was the most logical musing that ran through the troubled young woman's mind; for, on top of these episodes of pen-and-paper, Mary would attack her character.

_Why am I still here?_ she would wonder aimlessly. _Why do I deserve to live in this charming house with a well-to-do family when I've lied to a man who lives to serve __God__?_

_Perhaps he would not remember me if I went to him, _a doubtful Mary figured one autumn day in September. _Naturally he would have forgotten about me,_ she continued to wonder, _because neither has looked upon the other for three months!_

October reeled past the Crawley family, and November seemed to linger once it had claimed Downton's fields. All that Mary could view from her bedroom window had turned colours; and this climatic metamorphosis had been inevitable.

But so had the fact that Matthew Crawley had not forgotten the amiable maiden from the village. No, he could not cease to remember Mary Crawley.

Besides, their families were in desperate need of a reunion.

...

Carson was the first to read the news. "I don't know how to put it, milord," he admitted to the Earl of Grantham, "but you have relations that live in the village."

Robert frowned. After all, what family of his dared to reside in such a middle-class realm? "Why have I never heard of this? Let me see the letter." The butler quickly handed his employer the paper; it was full of ink, from top to bottom. After the Earl had perused the first paragraph, he sighed. "No, this cannot be. I had no heirs but James and then Patrick; and as we all know, they are dead."

Carson had read the letter's entirety beforehand, due to the envelope's misleading addressee: _To_ the _head of Downton Abbey's operations._ So assumption had taken full charge of the situation, and Charles Carson had decided to open the letter immediately. He'd called the real 'head of Downton' soon after realising the letter's irrelevance to him.

Carson carefully plowed through his employer's moment of denial. "This branch of the Crawley family has been disconnected, according to -"

"Yes, so why must I hand over her ladyship's fortune to a stranger? Sorry, Carson," Robert swiftly apologised. "I had no right to talk to you like that; please forgive me."

The butler bowed his head respectfully. "You have my forgiveness, milord. Shall I arrange dinner for Mrs. Crawley and her son?"

Robert scanned the remainder of the letter's contents for the names of these people. "Father Matthew Crawley - a minister of Downton's village church? - who is unmarried. And his mother, Isobel Crawley." He returned his gaze to Carson. "I'm sorry, what did you ask?"

"Er…if your lordship would like Mrs. Patmore to prepare for a dinner with them." The butler's head was spinning. _His lordship has an heir, of whom he knows nothing?_

"Yes, thank you, Carson. Tomorrow should work well. And please -" he raised both his voice and his seriousness - "do not tell Lady Mary about any of this. In fact… Inform no one of this development, startling as it is. I will tell her ladyship and the Dowager Countess, but none other. I take it you agree with my reasoning." Carson nodded firmly, bid the Earl a good afternoon, and departed the library.

On his way out, the butler caught sight of Lady Mary. Her dreary countenance lit up immediately when she saw him. "Good afternoon, Carson."

He only nodded in acknowledgement of her greeting, though the agony of refraining from speaking to her sank in after his favourite Crawley daughter disappeared moments later. _His lordship will likely force marriage upon Lady Mary and the new heir. I only hope this "Father Crawley" will be to our liking._

But the heir to Downton would not remain to be Charles Carson's main concern; in its place, he would worry about Mary.


	5. Five

The grandeur of Downton Abbey rendered Father Crawley speechless. He and his mother neared the big house in the Grantham family's automobile; both could make out an impressively large welcoming-party at the abbey's entrance. "I hope they do this for everyone, and not for just us," whispered Isobel, leaning to her right for only her son to hear her.

Matthew smiled. He'd been reading about aristocratic custom, and luckily such was normal for the hosts to display the entirety of the house's staff and family before the guests. "Don't worry, Mother," assured he. "This is their 'proper way' for greeting those who come to the abbey."

The chauffeur slowed the car as it went through the driveway. Nervous beyond comprehension, Matthew squirmed in his seat. It was a strange thing to be greeted by so many people; and yet something about this cultural difference enthralled him. For once, the clergyman believed he would find a sort of peace with these members of the aristocracy.

And that was critical. After all, he was only the heir presumptive to this place.

Multiple faces stared him and Isobel down as the middle-class guests exited the car. Two smartly-attired men neared Father Crawley and his mother. "We will take your bags to your rooms," spoke one. "Welcome to Downton," greeted the other.

From the moment he'd exited the car to the moment he'd gone inside, Matthew's vision was a blur. It was rather something that he'd managed to walk through the entryway without tripping on his mother, who'd gone in front of him. None of the family had introduced themselves, but the clergyman figured that would come next.

Soon all were gathered - in the same order as before - round the centre-room past the entryway. While Matthew would not think to notice it, Mary was not present amongst her family. She'd carefully withdrawn from the congregation of servants and family as soon as the car had been visible from the abbey. Mary knew not what her parents' punishment would be, but the more agonising thoughts she endured regarding Father Crawley...well, the more wretched she felt.

The young woman watched as her family began to introduce everyone: "...and this is my mother, Violet, the Dowager Countess..." Everything flowed beautifully until Cora turned to her daughters. Immersed in the routine of family introductions, she started with "This is my eldest daughter, Mary - excuse my mistake; no, these are my second and third daughters, Edith and Sybil..."

Robert's mouth had remained shut, but Mary - from the top of the mountainous flight of stairs - could read her father's eyes like a book. He looked furious, which was predictable considering the fact that his first child had ruined the dynamics of the formal introductions. _But his first child is a girl, _thought Mary negatively, _and so she is accustomed to ruining things._

But what did it mean, that this amiable clergyman from the village had roots in her family name? Of course she'd known their surnames were identical;_ but what were the chances, and how on earth have I been forced into a corner so quickly?_ Mary could not make amends with her question-filled head.

Father Crawley's mother introduced herself and her son. "We are not used to your ways of life, but I can say that we are proud to have been given this gift from God which allows us this chance for change. And what a lovely house," she added - in that foreign, cheery way of hers.

The Dowager Countess was not one to lose an opportunity at glorifying the work and pride of her late husband. "It is, indeed," she told Isobel, unsmiling and serious. But Isobel continued in her upright manner and asked, "Shall someone find Mary, then? My son and I are dying to meet her; funny enough we know a 'Mary Crawley'..." The rest had been muffled in the commotion of servants rushing to complete dinner preparations and Cora's start of conversation between Robert, Edith, and Sybil. They decided who would fetch Mary.

Cora planned everything: "I want you, my darlings, to stay with Cousin Matthew. Keep him company, and make sure that your father stirs up conversation with Cousin Isobel."

"Shouldn't we call him 'Father' rather than 'Cousin'? It sounds rather degrading to address an accomplished, disciplined man in such a way." Edith's reason was ignored, however, and Sybil announced, "We will keep him entertained, Mama."

Robert stood frozen as a statue. His eyes had met the figure in the shadows at the top of the staircase, and anger nearly smoked out of his nostrils. "What is it, Robert?" wondered Cora. In moments, both the Earl and Countess of Grantham were staring at their eldest daughter's utterly shy presence. "I'll handle it," whispered Robert to his wife. Cora only continued to look at Mary in shock.

Figuring the entirety of the situation was too much for his daughter, the Earl ascended the stairs at a steady pace. _Perhaps she feels that I've given up on her,_ thought he. Mary started toward her father as he'd reached the second floor. "I suppose you're more than displeased with me," she assumed glumly. "And you should be; I've proven a disappointment since birth." Her lips were still in motion when Robert blurted, "Stop."

Second after dreadful second did they stare at one another, Robert's countenance being too opaque for his daughter to understand. "Shall I return to my room then?" Mary asked softly. She was somewhat eager for him to consent; but the more she put off seeing her cousin the clergyman -

"Certainly not," was the Earl's response. His eyebrows were furrowed, and this puzzled the young woman. _Why is he not upset?_ wondered she. _Have I not disobeyed and dishonoured my family?_

Robert offered Mary his hand. "I want you to return with me downstairs, and I wish for you to meet your cousins. Both are particularly interested to meet you." He'd meant nothing of it, but the latter assertion caused Mary's heart to skip a beat. "What do you mean?" she questioned, sceptical and not the least bit warmed by the news.

Her father bothered not to answer her query. "I understand that all this might be very sudden to you, and I don't want my heir to intimidate you. To be quite honest, he's far from frightening."

In resignation to the fact that unbearable embarrassment was forthcoming, Mary took her father's hand and urged, "Then we had better not make them wait."

...

"So this is the drawing-room?" Isobel Crawley verified. The Countess of Grantham smiled and affirmed, "Yes. We wait here until our butler, Carson, admits us into the dining-room." Cora's affection had grown for this woman from Manchester, who had expressed - for several minutes now - considerable interest in regards to the abbey. Isobel's fascination with aristocratic life reminded Cora of a child learning about continents across the oceans.

"Do you always precede dinnertime in this way?" Mrs. Crawley further wondered, taking her place on the sofa. Cora sat next to the woman.

"We do, even when a few of us are dining. We've had occasions where almost everyone had been away for the evening, but Carson never fails to exercise tradition - and, of course, propriety."

Isobel remarked, "Ah" just as her son approached the two women. Edith and Sybil followed the clergyman, their eyes guilty of not hiding how enamoured they were with the young man. Father Crawley, of course, was blind to this phenomenon. "Mother," he interrupted Cora and Isobel, "are we not going to meet Lord Grantham's daughter? For some reason I continue to marvel at the identical nature of her name with Miss Crawley's name."

Matthew looked at the Countess of Grantham with puzzlement. "Have you heard of her? She, also, is called 'Mary Crawley'; I met her in the village. Her family live there..."

Edith's and Sybil's mouths had simultaneously dropped. Cora, too, appeared aghast. "Where did you meet this young woman? How old is she?"

Isobel wondered why this family had become so stunned by her son's mentioning of the kind Miss Crawley she'd met once before. "The girl's age must have been under twenty-five years. But I've not seen her for months; in fact, neither has Matthew..." She glanced at her son, whose face had turned cold and whose eyes had frozen at something behind Isobel. "What is it, my darling?"

No sooner did she have to turn than the moment at which Father Crawley perfected his posture and cleared his throat. Now Cora, Edith, and Sybil understood all except one mystery: why had Mary lied to this man?

"Mary." The clergyman's voice had been hoarse; nothing else could he push himself to ask of the woman who - to him - did not belong in that very room. Not even her elegant clothing did he believe to belong to her. _She's playing a game with me,_ he figured in his moment of absolute confusion. _I'm dreaming; this is not my Mary..._

The Earl of Grantham stood behind his eldest daughter, who had so abruptly halted that he complained openly, "Mary, please continue. You cannot just stop in the doorway..." His eyes travelled past his daughter's shoulder, and suddenly he was aware of the silence that had crept into the drawing-room. Speechless, he remained in the door-frame until Mary proceeded of her own volition.

Father Crawley felt it in his place to walk toward Mary. "Forgive me for that which I am about to admit, but I thought you lived...well, in a house of _lesser_ wealth." His voice had not transcended a whisper, although to Mary it had been a shrieking cacophony.

All eyes were upon her lips; and Mary could not work under such stress. _I asked for this upon lying to this man. Now I must apologise._ "Forgive me, Father Crawley, for the shock that I have caused you. I meant not for it to harm you -"

"Mary," piped up Violet Crawley, "what on earth did you tell him?"

"That is not of anyone's concern but Mary's and mine," replied a bold, solemn Matthew. "If you will all excuse us for a moment, it is critical that Mary and I leave the room." Touching the young woman's arm ever so gently, the clergyman gestured toward the door leading out of the drawing-room. No one stirred.

When Carson entered minutes later, he almost lost his sanity upon noticing the quietude of the room. He struggled with words: "Dinner is..."

"Thank you, Carson," acknowledged the Dowager. "Please keep the meal warm for another -"

"Never mind," Robert quickly asserted. "Carson, thank you. We will enter the dining-room now." He felt Cora's body brush up against his own, whereupon he focused his attention upon her countenance. She did not move a muscle in her face, but Robert feared her expression.

Carson saw this interaction between Earl and Countess, and once he'd surveyed the room for a head-count, he realised that Mary was absent.

She _and_ that clergyman.


	6. Six

Carson knew it was wrong to eavesdrop. He'd known it as his feet had swept across the carpeting of the dining-room, as his arm had extended outward to grasp the doorknob, and as his eyes had searched round the abbey for the woman he sought. _Mary is not in good spirits,_ he sensed. And it bothered the butler greatly, deeply.

He neared the corner to his left and approached the entryway to the big house. Not a sound could he hear; and suddenly it occurred to him that his favourite Crawley daughter loved the outdoors. Therefore - as it only made sense for Lady Mary to take the clergyman outside into the cool night air - Charles Carson started for the library.

His plan was to spot them through the windows, but that quickly became an impossibility; against the wall nearest the library entrance-door was Mary's bowed head. From Carson's view through the crack in the doorway, he could watch every repentant tear grace the woman's cheeks. They would fall in a strict sort of pattern: one would strike the wroth, red carpet; another would linger, grating the skin of its source. _None such conduct could possibly suit another person on the earth but Mary, _presumed the knowledgeable butler. _I know this girl; I watched her bloom into a young woman. And right now…she is ripped apart._

_But what has broken her?_ This Carson wondered whilst his body angled itself in order to find the clergyman at the opposite side of the room. How far he was from the weeping woman hit Carson hard. _How can this respectable man not draw nearer Lady Mary? How can he not comfort her as a called and ordained servant of the Lord would normally have done?_

"I'm sorry, it just boggles my mind," spoke Father Crawley, choosing to look at the unlit fireplace rather than his accompaniment. "Why would you think I'd prefer to know you as a villager? I can't make sense of it!" His eyes were fiery and confused; the wind with which he'd interjected that last assertion struck a chord in Mary.

She whipped her head round to face him. "So you don't think ill of my family, or its lavish manner of life?"

"Of course not! I -"

"But I know you're angry with me for concealing the truth." Mary took a large stride toward him and stopped. His eyes were fixed upon hers; as a matter of fact, they were not angry. "It's all right to be upset with me, Father Crawley," she assured him gravely. Matthew's countenance had frozen; Mary frowned.

The clergyman looked round the room during their moment of unwanted silence. His restless fingers adjusted the white-tie beneath his neck; her impatience grew with every unresponsive second that transpired. Finally she gave in: "I am sorry for what sins I have committed. Even while they came from my silly desire to befriend someone without my aristocratic stamp in my head…"

Her accompaniment lifted his gaze upon her figure. "You were trying to… You thought you could _befriend_ me if you donned another's clothing?" His tone was - in every sense of the word - _light._ As Mary heard the wonderment that had happened in those lips - those precious, saint-like lips - she forced back the urge to swallow hard. His tone had been so sincere, so full of curiosity. _Perhaps I have judged his disposition too harshly, _thought she. _After all, he is only human as am I. Nothing in our natures is "different" from the other._

It was at that moment that Mary completely opened up, because she was certain now: _He and I are equals. Class matters not; he and I are on the same ground._

But this ground was shaking.

Matthew inhaled every particle of air he could and breathed, "I forgive you, Mary, because The Lord has forgiven us, and because it is the right thing to do. But do not be disappointed when I tell you this." He took several steps forward, and so did she; they were centimetres apart when he looked at her very-near eyes. "You have flattered me. For one of such high rank to descend that ladder - to become a mere leaf of this tree we inhabit - that compels me. To you." He stared at her for one long moment before stepping back. Father Crawley extended his hand. Mary accepted and shook it, her actions more automatic than manual.

"I hope we can put this behind us and become good friends," concluded he, bowing his head to her._ I should be the one bowing to him,_ mused Mary. _If anyone deserves a gesture of gratitude -_

"Now, I'm sure the family - _our _family - are rather eager to have us at the dinner table." This he'd asserted with a smile, but Mary had only paid especial attention to one word in his sentence:

Our.

By this time, Charles Carson had hurried away from the library-door, scolding himself internally for having the selfishness to listen to the entirety of the conversation.

Torturing his mind was Lady Mary's confession. _Why on earth would she pretend to be a farmer's daughter? Of course she knows better, too, than to dishonour her family's name through a fabricated identity._

The butler's puzzlement continued through dinner, the spirits of which had picked up immediately upon the arrival of cheery-faced Father Crawley and his cousin.

"Mary, you've been crying," whispered Sybil to her eldest sister seconds after Mary had seated herself at the dining-table. Luckily there were several conversations in session; Mary frowned at her plate and remarked, "Perhaps the clergyman and I were having a talk about his admirable vocation. It's an amazing job, you know."

Before Sybil or nosy Edith could respond, Isobel Crawley called the Earl of Grantham: "Cousin Robert, I think it a good time for my son to talk about his forthcoming missionary work." The table turned silent upon the mention of "missionary work" - something about which no one in the family was knowledgeable - and Robert nodded quickly to Isobel, who directed her attention toward Matthew. He sat adjacent to Mary, who could detect the sudden intensity of the clergyman's pulsating heart. She held her breath and silently wished him the best of luck.

"What my mother would like me to announce is…well, it's a commitment I've vowed to make. I plan to move to India, where I shall serve The Lord for ten years. Missionary work has…" He could sense the dramatic transformation in the dining-room's atmosphere, whereupon he chuckled nervously and continued, "It is no vacation from home, that's for certain. But I am glad to do it again -"

"Are you?" questioned the Dowager Countess rather piquantly. Isobel glared at the old woman from the opposite of the table.

Continued the Dowager: "Forgive me for intruding upon this conversation, Father Crawley, but most missionaries I've had the fortune to know were much more passionate about their callings -"

"He _is_ passionate," pressed Isobel, making ardent eye-contact with all surrounding the table. Carson and Thomas paused to allow the guest another moment to speak; but when Isobel closed her disappointed mouth after seconds of mutual silence, the servants continued with offering the second dish to the family.

"Do you intend to travel back to England during those ten years?" questioned Robert, simultaneously stunned and irked. Of _course_ he'd have the fortune of his future heir being a missionary! _I may never have the chance to property educate him about business here at Downton,_ thought the Earl with dread.

Cora, too, was taken aback. "Have you thought about your future here, Father Crawley? That is, do you believe you will be able to handle the earldom when the time comes?"

"Let's not ask such enormous questions on his first evening here," reasoned Edith. All seemed to be in favour of this rational statement; and so the conversations that followed were of less-stressful natures.

Mary's focus had not left the clergyman's countenance. His sad eyes only emphasised that which the eldest Crawley daughter had observed from the beginning; but now she wondered whether she could comfort him now. _Do I have his trust?_ Mary wondered seriously.

Because - if she did not - he would very well be off on a ship to India in weeks' time.


	7. Seven

It was a brave thing, edging her way round the corner of Philip Street. But her heart had not won the ability to forget about Father Crawley; no, his problem was Mary's problem - and for several reasons.

But only one truly stuck with Lady Mary, and that was this: she most ardently loved the clergyman.

Certainly a union with a soon-to-be-gone young man sounded impossible to Edith and Sybil; Mary had confessed that she agreed with her grandmother's idea that Father Crawley and she must be married, so as to keep Downton's fortune in their reach. But what Mary hadn't the time to confess to her younger sisters was the plain notion that she believed the heir presumptive loved _her._

It hadn't been the most lucid of evidence, during that first night on which Mary had admitted her false identity. Nevertheless the softness with which the clergyman had spoken to her, those sympathetic blue eyes... Although embarrassing to herself, Mary thought, _His mannerisms, his delicate, good-hearted nature... It compels me to him._

Uncertainty overpowering her every step toward the village church's entrance, Mary tried her best to focus upon the garden in front of the church. To her utter amazement, however, the patch of usually colorful land was bare. _What has happened?_ wondered the woman in disappointment. She had, after all, relied upon the pleasant sight of that garden to reassure her that she was doing the proper thing.

She had come here to persuade Father Crawley out of his missionary work. And Mary knew - however much the clergyman disliked his own plans - that it would be difficult to urge him to stay.

_But Downton needs him. Papa needs him, _realised Mary, _and _I _need him._

The only sounds in the church came from the pipes of the organ. For seconds Mary watched in admiration of the organist's incredible skill: his feet dominated a scale of notes on the foot pedals, whilst his two hands danced across the Swell and Great keyboards.

Mary's focus was lost, however, once she heard a voice call to her from above, "Here to see Father Crawley, ma'am?" Mary turned to find the speaker leaning out from the balcony encompassing the second level of the sanctuary. She nodded to the man, who appeared kind and eager to help her.

"Use the staircase to your left, ma'am, and you will find him straight ahead in his office."

"Thank you," acknowledged Mary with a volume only slightly over a whisper; she was wary of the organist's practising, and did not wish to disturb him.

The flight of stairs proved to be shorter - but much more difficult to ascend - than the abbey's grand staircase. Her surroundings were dark, and the only light the woman could detect came from behind her: the stained-glass walls of the church were her beacon.

In seconds, Mary had met the top floor of the church. She could now view the interior's beauty: the historic architecture, the thirty pews, the altar. In such awe at this sight she seldom had the fortune to behold, Mary did not notice Father Crawley exiting his office. When he saw her, his countenance immediately brightened. "Cousin Mary," greeted he.

The startled woman jolted her head in his direction. "Father Crawley! forgive me; I was entranced by -"

"You don't have to apologise," assured the clergyman. Sighing, he met her at the balcony's edge and confessed, "It will be a challenge to leave such a place as this. I hardly can believe these past several months have vanished so quickly." Without intent, their faces turned toward one another; Mary felt herself blushing, though she could not find the strength to stop it. "I understand," she replied quietly.

"Of course, it will meet my eyes again some day, when I inherit Downton. I still cannot..."

Mary hadn't a clue as to why the man had stopped mid-speech. "Father Crawley?" she prompted him, sensing the discord within him. "I'm sorry," he uttered suddenly. Feigning happiness, the clergyman took his hands off the balcony and stood straight up. "Now, what news have you for me? I know it's something important, because you haven't been here for months." The latter sentence was a truth, and yet it slapped Mary in the face harder than she'd imagined. _Of course I should have known he'd mention it,_ mused she.

"It is my fault entirely for that, and I ask for your forgiveness. It seems I'm not much of a trustworthy cousin to an ordained servant of God."

"Nonsense," came the reply, "we're all constantly battling with the sinner in us. The saint wants to worship God, and to do no wrongs against Him, but unfortunately we're stuck in these until we die." He pointed to his figure, whereupon Mary felt uncomfortable. She'd guiltily looked upon it with longing - longing to be much _more_ than a cousin to this considerate man. He'd admitted it himself: _You compel me. To you._

But her cousin was about to forget that Mary had something of importance to impart. "I think I should talk with the elders and the organist now. About tomorrow," he added, once he'd spotted the minutest bit of disappointment in his cousin's face. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be -"

"But Father Crawley, you asked why I am here." Mary's words froze his figure, which had for a few moments been in motion, aiming for the staircase. "And I can assure you that, while no one sent me, I have reason for seeking you."

He turned to look at her once more. In a soft voice, he urged, "All right. Please do tell me what brings you here."

Her body trembling, her eyes hoping that this would not transform the agreeable man she'd come to love - yes, love - Mary raised her head, opened her lips, and exhaled: "I want you to stay at Downton."


	8. Eight

"What?"

"I beg your pardon," apologised the woman, abashed and the slightest bit regretful of her sudden request. Father Crawley, however, did not frown; he did not look away in embarrassment, neither could he oppose of his cousin's wish. "I am sorry," Mary added quickly. She glanced toward his office and reminded him, "I've interrupted your work; please excuse me."

"Wait - Mary," called the clergyman, now stepping forward to catch her moving body. He'd reached for her arm, but instead he caught her hand. She turned almost violently at his touch, purely shocked. "Father Crawley, forgive me for -"

"I want you to tell me why," he began, his hand still cupped over hers. She did not stir; her cousin's response had caught her off-guard.

"Why..." Mary practically whispered, urging him on in the gentlest way. The clergyman chuckled.

"Why you want me to stay. You claim this idea is your own?"

"Well, yes; I...noticed you have grown quite fond of this church." Mary's words sounded awkward to her, as did the fact that she spoke of the sanctuary in which they stood. Matthew nodded in confirmation of her observation, staring at the ground in contemplation of her real purpose for bringing the matter to discussion. _Does she love me?_ he wondered. _Could she feel toward me what I have felt toward her?_

"And I believe Downton needs you," continued Mary. Her vision fell upon his own, yielding the two of them momentarily frozen. Their conversation seemed to surround something altogether new for them to discuss; they had never had such serious, developed thoughts to impart to one another.

Breaking from the trance, the young man admitted, "I _have_ wanted a permanent parish for quite some time now." His eyes trailed past the balcony on their left and down to the organ. Its player still sat atop the stool, passion channeling into every pressured note on the keyboard and pedals. Mary's attention temporarily fixated upon this sight; but Father Crawley had more questions for his cousin. "Do you believe I was wrong for having consented to years of missionary work?" enquired he.

Mary swallowed hard, unable to predict her response. "I... I did not mean to discredit your service as a member of the clergy -"

"No, I simply mean... Do you think I shouldn't have done? Aside from all recent discoveries...of my position to inherit, aside from all that." He focused on Mary's countenance and noticed that all confidence had dwindled away from it. Just as he'd resolved to take back his question, Mary spoke:

"I think you might have been at ease if you had realised...well, that you _love_ Downton! And you love this parish, and the wonderful people who come to worship God in this beautiful building."

This assertion made Matthew uneasy. He'd known ever since meeting the amiable members of the congregation that he was meant to remain in one position. _She's caught me,_ he thought: both of the village church and of Mary.

"Father Crawley," piped up the young woman, her eyes on the staircase leading downstairs. "I'm afraid I've spoken out of turn; please give my regards to your mother."

In a fleeting moment she was parted from him; he felt himself growing colder and angrier as she vanished from the upstairs-level. His voice ached to call out to her; his mind chastised his unconsciousness in that moment at which she'd left him.

Matthew knew he had to act fast if he wanted to stop her. Ten different scenarios shuffled around in his head, rendering the clergyman unable to think properly. Suddenly he heard the clattering of women's shoes coming from downstairs. Jerking his weight to the balcony, Matthew caught sight of her. "Mary! Stay where you are!"

His voice was thunder in the calm climate that had inhabited the church: the mellow interlude that the organist had been playing, the soft murmurs of the workers conversing upstairs. Almost as instantly as Matthew had shouted, the organist had lifted all limbs from the instrument. The pipes had become deathly silent shortly afterward, and all who were in the building aborted their duties to stare at their priest in awe.

Mary, of course, had heard him. She felt a rush of warm blood surge through her veins upon the immediate change in atmosphere. _Why must I be the reason for this embarrassment?_ she wondered with dread. The clergyman had forgotten about her, as all the room's inhabitants had turned to stare at he who was leaning dangerously on the balcony. Mary sighed quietly, collected her strength, and exited the church.

She felt guilty for abandoning him again, and just as she'd past the street-corner, it hit her: _He may not forgive me if I leave him, much less love me after it! I must return to him -_

"Cousin Mary." A chill ran down her spine as her formal title had been uttered. Turning round to face her worst fears, Mary glanced once at his face and gasped.

The clergyman was in tears - not many, but certainly two or three - and he inhaled heavily at the sight of her dry countenance. "Must we always part like this?" he wondered, agony emanating from his mouth into the woman's ears.

Mary's heart plummeted. "No," she admitted, shaking her head slowly. His features she could not bear to behold in such a state! The man's hair had become rather unkempt, and every region surrounding his eyes was proof that she'd brought him pain. "I am so, so sorry, Father Crawley... I am inexplicably foolish for finding the sense to leave you. I beg for your forgiveness."

By this time, villagers had begun to swing their attention in the way of Matthew and Mary; being examined by the public did not worry the clergyman - neither did it embarrass him - and so he ignored everything secondary in importance to his cousin.

_This painfully wonderful woman, this intelligent cousin of mine,_ thought Father Crawley over and again. Holding his solemn gaze with this wondrous person who was simultaneously a stranger and a friend to him, the man admitted, "You believe I am completely sick with guilt for leaving Downton...which is true, but...I am, in reality, sick with admiration for you."

Mary's countenance lifted in spirit, astounded by his straightforward confession. She pursed her lips before telling him the very same. "That is why," she whispered, "I want you to stay. Downton can use someone like you...and you don't have to leave your vocation as head of this parish - not yet - but I think you would find that..." She couldn't help herself but to chuckle. "Downton needs someone with such rich experiences of the world as you have. I sense the dawn of change, and...Papa will need you to guide this estate in the right direction."

"But you haven't explained it," Matthew vaguely replied after a moment's pause. Mary knew exactly what he'd meant, however, and nodded with a grin.

"Now that I know you feel as I do," she explained, "we should understand why the one of us can even _admire_ the other, since we've hardly talked in the past few months."

"You have a point," came her response. A storm had meanwhile rolled over Downton's village; Matthew suggested that they return inside the church, and Mary consented. They hurried before the first rumble of thunder sounded.

"It's interesting that we should be so curious about one another," Mary proceeded once they'd seated themselves in Matthew's office upstairs. "I don't quite know why we've grown fond -"

"We are alike," answered her cousin, smiling at the thought of it. "God knows how distantly our blood meets, but we nevertheless share similar thoughts and beliefs."

Mary frowned. "How can you be certain about that? We've only talked on but a handful of occasions!"

"Yes," agreed the other, "but you've demonstrated a thirst for a different, new life...as have I.

"Consider our lives before meeting one another," continued the clergyman, leaning back in his seat. "You are stuck where you are, in the house where your very nursery lies, until you marry. I, similarly, had the obligation to spread the Gospel across India for much time. Before that, I'd signed up for seminary, and up until now my life has been one of a single purpose. That is, if you disregard my newfound prospect of stopping all missionary-work." He wiped his brow, having earned a bit of a sweat from all his talking. "You'll have to forgive me," he concluded, returning his hands to his lap. "My body has this terrible tendency to overheat when I don't shut up." His cousin chuckled at this, whereupon he felt relieved.

She assured him still: "There's nothing for me to forgive. The opposite, I think, is valid... I left you and your mother without thanking you for your hospitality, for your kindness... It is _I_ who must beseech for forgiveness." Mary looked away from his figure, month-old shame seeping into her pores once again. Father Crawley nodded and answered her plea:

"I do forgive you, because God has forgiven us. But I would've done, even were I not ordained as one of God's servants. So you have the assurance, Cousin Mary, that I do not forgive merely on account of my vocation."

"Thank you for that," replied the woman slowly, after a momentary pause in the clergyman's speech. "But I am indebted to you for regarding me so highly after I lied to you about my social status." The two of them thought silently about Mary's formerly-played false-identity, but Matthew soon shook his head and reminded her, "What needed to be discussed concerning that matter...has already been done. It is behind us."

Nodding but not completely absolved of her guilt, Mary started to rise from her seat across from the clergyman's desk-chair. "Cousin Mary?" questioned Matthew.

Mary halted in her motions to leave the office. "Father Crawley?" she responded, not quite certain whether her words had been meant to come out in a playful tone. Nevertheless the man smiled at her address of his official title.

"Would it be bothersome if I came to the abbey for luncheon? I think I'd better have a talk with Lord Grantham if my future is to alter." The latter sentence brought a curve to Mary's lips.

She arose from her chair and prayed that this man would call off that which would separate them for far too long; she thirsted, too, to stroll through the garden with him before this proposed luncheon. "I cannot find reason not to invite you," she replied simply. Whereupon he got up from his chair and led her out of the office in a gentlemanly fashion.

He was too wonderful. On her way out, she thought herself lucky to ever have run into him in the village on that benign, summer day.


	9. Nine

"When will Father Crawley arrive?"

"Hush, Edith; your voice suggest far too much curiosity."

Mary could not help but to smile at her sister; indeed, the clergyman would arrive in thirty minutes' time at the abbey, and nothing could break the three Crawley sisters away from the library window. The truth was that they all were eager to see the young man.

Sybil averted her fixed gaze upon the driveway outside and put a hand on her eldest sister's shoulder. "Just think, Mary: Mama _and_ Papa are on your side, so you and Father Crawley are sure to be married within the next few months!"

The recipient of these exciting statements beamed. "Darling, you make it all sound so easy. I wouldn't imagine Papa going 'all in' without _some_ form of argument." Edith smirked in agreement; but Sybil frowned.

"Papa will likely say yes!" exclaimed the youngest. "After all, we've no hope to contain Mama's fortune within the family unless you marry Papa's heir." She gave up her position in front of the window and announced, "I'm going upstairs to dress for dinner."

"But the dressing gong hasn't -" began Edith.

"I don't to miss a thing if he arrives early!" explained Sybil, grinning primarily at Mary. "If you don't mind, then, I'll have Anna first."

The other sisters consented without complaint; shortly after Sybil exited the library, Edith retired from Mary's side at the window and admitted, "I think Sybil has a wise strategy. I shall see you later."

"So you have a crush on my husband-to-be _too?"_ enquired Mary, but her tone was more genuine than bitter. Edith shook her head before opening the door to leave the library.

"You're not his fiancèe _yet."_

"Well, I hope to be in a few hours."

This made Edith chuckle; Mary tried to keep her countenance serious, but all efforts failed. The two sisters parted ways on a happy note - _much to my surprise, in fact,_ thought the eldest Crawley daughter.

After ten more agonising minutes - during which Mary anticipated the chauffeur's car to pull into the empty driveway with Father Crawley inside - Carson entered the library to find the young woman still as the surrounding furniture, peering out the window. "Eh hem," he uttered, clearing his throat (but more so to acquire Lady Mary's attention). She turned immediately. "Carson!" she interjected, abashed.

"Anna wonders whether your ladyship will be upstairs soon," the butler announced in a routinely manner. Inside, however, he knew why his favourite Lady Mary watched the front of the house. He showed not a sign of his internal happiness for the young woman. _Lady Mary will certainly have his lordship's consent to marry Father Crawley,_ thought he; _and that is what stirs the cheeriness in me._

"Of course, Carson," replied Mary after only a second of realisation that she'd been entranced for minutes on end. "I shall go there right now; thank you."

The proud butler bowed his head reverently.

...

The abbey's expected guest had arrived promptly, accompanied by his mother. From the moment of their arrival to the moment at which dinner concluded, Isobel Crawley was ecstatic. She could not keep her eyes off her son and his marriage-interest, who equally displayed affection for the clergyman. After dinner, Robert announced that Isobel, Cora, Matthew, and Mary follow him to the library. "Even while we might all be in agreement with the proposed union, we must discuss it."

So off they went, leaving Sybil and Edith in charge of enlivening the drawing-room. Naturally, they chose to listen at the library-door.

"Father Crawley, I am sure you have words on this matter before any of us 'old people' start babbling nonsense." Robert's warmth toward the young heir-presumptive lightened up the library's atmosphere; but it especially encouraged Mary.

Matthew awkwardly got up from his seat on the sofa (he had conservatively chosen the sofa that seated his mother). Locking eyes temporarily with Mary before he began his speech, the clergyman gathered all the oxygen he could to commence:

"First I just want to clarify the alteration in my career," he started. Isobel held her breath; she was not completely satisfied with her son's choice, but she knew how much it would benefit Matthew's future estate if he remained. "I am, for certain, staying here at Downton," continued he. "It so happens that I have stumbled upon the greatest region in which I can deliver God's Word... At the village church. Everyone is quite pleasant, and I am glad to reside in a community that ardently cares about going to the services each Sunday."

Cora took advantage of Matthew's pause. "I'm glad you're happy with the village church, Father Crawley -"

"Please," interrupted the clergyman; "please call me Matthew. I honestly detest being addressed so formally in the presence of my family. Mother can testify." He glanced at Isobel, whose face blossomed into a shade of pink.

From outside the library, Sybil nudged Edith; they felt embarrassed by suggesting that their family call Matthew by his vocational title.

Mary eyed Matthew when there seemed to be an open-end in the conversation. "Oh, and one more thing I must confess," he added. Beaming in the direction of the woman he loved, Matthew uttered the unexpected: "Mary has given me the reason to shift my vocational work. I'd imagine it difficult for the wife of a missionary - whether or not she travelled with her husband - and so I promise to all that I will not leave Downton." Pausing to make eye-contact with Mary, Matthew breathed slowly inward and admitted, "I could never be away from home for too long...and that is precisely what Downton is to me, because it is so to Mary."

If Robert's priceless expression was at that moment the effect of the clergyman's moving words, then the Earl of Grantham was touched beyond words. He gave in after seconds of his mother's and daughter's stares at him, and chuckled. Isobel grinned at Robert and then at Matthew. "There must be something about men that makes them so delicate with words... Although it's a rarity among you, but nevertheless -"

"It's very moving," chimed in Cora. Isobel nodded and smiled at her cousin, whereupon Mary found it appropriate to break the family out of its love-infested entrancement. "I think we should ask Papa then, Matthew," she decided, rising from her seat. Matthew gestured for her to stand adjacent to him; willingly did Mary comply.

"I wonder what it is you two want to ask me," Robert announced with light sarcasm. Cora nudged him secretly, urging him to emerge from his previous state of mind (one that had rendered him practically drunk from Matthew's words).

Gathering the strength to proceed, Matthew cocked his head toward Mary prior to addressing the Earl. The young woman nodded slightly - just enough for him to notice - whereupon he began, "Cousin Robert, I ask for your permission for me to marry your eldest daughter."


	10. Ten

The wedding had been the epitome of grandeur and beauty: a dazzling Lady Mary had entered through the village-church door, her dress gliding past arrangements of cream-coloured roses and lilies. Whilst all had immediately fixed their gazes upon the bride, Mary's eyes had shot directly to the clergyman at the altar. Father Crawley had beamed at her in awe, his loving gaze reflecting back at his wife-to-be.

They had enjoyed the wedding in the morning and the luncheon at noon; and so - at three o'clock, when the sun's presence had begun to illuminate the west - Matthew and his newly-wedded wife took to an afternoon walk through the January snow.

"I fear Papa will put an end to our stroll," admitted Mary, intertwining hands with Matthew. "Though it is not very cold out here."

The young man slowed in his pace; Mary turned to look at him. Matthew - like she - still donned his bridegroom attire. He appeared to her rather pale, whereupon Mary rubbed her hands along his arms and whispered, "Perhaps we had better go inside. The air is frosty, no doubt..."

Their moment of silence and consideration was interrupted by a cough. It was Matthew's turn to speak: "It's not as bad as it seems -"

"But you're ill, Matthew -"

"I am not," protested the clergyman, his voice hoarse in comparison to his latter assertion. Matthew held his hand to his mouth to cough once, twice more. Now Mary was worried. _Perhaps it wasn't right to come out here,_ she repented internally. Looking abashedly at her gown and then at the white landscape before her, she latched her hand onto her husband's arm and announced, "Come. We will have our walk when the warm weather returns."

...

Consequently, Matthew fell ill that afternoon and was advised by Dr. Clarkson not to leave the bedroom. The wedding reception having concluded an hour previous, and so Mary devoted the entirety of the evening to her husband's care.

Shortly after the dressing gong had sounded, Isobel visited Matthew and Mary. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she told them, smiling gleefully at her son and daughter-in-law.

Mary grinned at Isobel and drew forth to embrace her. "I'm sorry for letting your son catch cold," she apologised. "I suppose we would have enjoyed the nature of a springtime wedding."

The older woman shook her head. "I don't think Matthew would have borne it - that is, if you both had waited another two months -"

"You're exactly right, Mother," admitted Matthew from the bed. His mother grinned at him and approached the bedside. "Mary's taken over for you now," the clergyman reminded Isobel. Upon receiving a frown from both women, Matthew withdrew his exact words: "Well, not exactly... I mean to say that Mary is very much like my mother now - my second mother - because..."

He had stopped in his speech as soon as it had occurred to him that his mother was weeping in happiness. "Mother..." he began, unsure of whether to lift himself up from the bed to comfort her. But Mary took the initiative to do so, rubbing the older woman's back whilst smiling warmly at her mother-in-law. "It's all right," began Mary; "I wouldn't dream of taking your vocation from you -"

"No, no," cut in a persistent Isobel, whose face was red but full of enthusiasm. She grinned at her daughter-in-law, for the first time actually processing the meaning of Mary's union with her son. "I think it's all very well. You have married my son; now he's yours to take care of - at least," she added, "when I am unable to do so myself. But Matthew is right." She shifted her gaze from Mary to her son, who had situated himself in an upright position against the head of the bed frame.

Mary looked at them both, overwhelmed by the gratitude she'd been awarded for something she'd regarded to be mere routine. "I'm flattered, really. I'd never dreamed -" She was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door. "It's the father of the bride; may I come in?"

Following the Earl of Grantham's entrance into the room had been a lighthearted conversation, embraces and kisses, and - finally - silence. Mary and Matthew were alone for the first time since their walk hours before.

"You shouldn't stay here on my account," explained Matthew, who felt incredibly guilty that his wife could not bring herself to leave her unwell husband.

Adamant though the woman was, Mary would not abandon her husband at his bedside. Only once did she get up for him - to retrieve a warm, damp cloth for his forehead - but swiftly did she return. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispered into his ear. Matthew held her face in his dry hands and pressed his lips to hers. Their surroundings melted away from them as the kiss lingered, its passion surging through every inch of skin. "I love you, my darling," Mary managed when - for one brief moment - their lips were parted. Matthew pulled her in again, tempted by the sweetness of their first intimate expression.

"You will certainly be a wonderful mother when the time comes," he whispered against her cheek. Matthew sought her dark-brown eyes; they fixated upon him soon enough, simultaneously frightened and embarrassed by his assertion. Mary could not speak.

"Sorry," he chuckled, leaving their embrace for the moment. "I only meant that you're sure to make a damned good one, since your care for me has far surpassed anything I could have envisioned."

"Oh, Matthew," the woman sighed, placing her hand on his arm. "We're going to have to work on conversations. Forgive me, but I think your head is in sermon-mode. This isn't church; you don't have to cut quickly to the point." Mary laughed at his puzzled expression, whereupon she continued: "I don't mean anything by this, except...well, you've stunned me."

It took a few seconds for the clergyman to regain the confidence to speak. "Well, I am sorry if I executed my speech inappropriately..but you're going to make a wonderful mother... I cannot refrain from admitting it." He extended his arms to welcome her into his embrace, apologising for his recurring coughing fits ("I'm not contagious, you know"). Mary, however, did not care about anything except their unity in marriage. _I am so lucky,_ realised she.

The fireplace was soon the only sound in the room, and yet it happily crackled and snapped as the hours swept by. Mary and Matthew had decided to retire without dinner that night, partly due to their inability to stop talking with one another until eight o'clock. Their minds were elsewhere, and their eagerness to learn more about the other dominated their conversations.

Indeed, neither could have felt surer that their future would be an immense assortment of excitements and challenges; but through even the most severe of tempests, Father Matthew and Lady Mary Crawley would prevail.

* * *

The End

_**Thank you for reading! It was such fun to write!**_


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